


All on Memorex

by supercasey



Series: I'm projecting onto Jack Bright and you can't stop me ✌️ [1]
Category: SCP Foundation
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anxiety, Cutting, Depression, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Hurt, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Mental Illness, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Past Child Abuse, Physical hurt, Self-Destruction, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, but don't worry he doesn't die, i dunno just read it i guess but don't if you're super uncomfy with this sort of shit, jack attempts suicide in this fic, seriously this isn't for the faint of heart
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-27
Updated: 2021-01-27
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:33:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,612
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29015163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/supercasey/pseuds/supercasey
Summary: Dr. Bright gets a hotel room. It’s so much worse than that.
Relationships: Jack Bright & Adam Bright, Jack Bright & Claire Lumineaux, Jack Bright & Dr. Alto Clef, Jack Bright & Mikell Bright, Jack Bright & TJ Bright
Series: I'm projecting onto Jack Bright and you can't stop me ✌️ [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2128575
Comments: 18
Kudos: 45





	All on Memorex

**Author's Note:**

> The description is vague af, but I hope you read the tags on AO3, ‘cus those are NOT vague. Tbh, I probably shouldn’t even be writing this, but I dunno, 2020 took a lot out of me, and after reading up on Dr. Bright… well, let’s just say I felt a connection with a lot of aspects regarding his character (aspects which I feel like people don’t talk about enough tbh). Again, huge warnings for attempted suicide, graphic descriptions of self-harm, and other such self-destructive behaviors being put on full display. This fic was not written to glorify or romanticize suicide, but to vent my self-destructive feelings in a less harmful way.
> 
> (Small note: I intended on breaking this into two chapters, but it just didn’t flow right, so I’m sorry for that.)
> 
> Edit: (February 22nd, 2021) I added a piece of fanart I commissioned to the fic!!! The art was done by divinity-beings on Tumblr, so check her out if you get the chance (though be warned, she doesn't really do SCP fanart, but her art is still super amazing, as you'll soon see)!

Like many things in Dr. Bright's life, the planning of his suicide is simultaneously a spur of the moment affair and quite heavily thought out. It takes a month of straight planning, a month of memorizing security’s schedules on-site, a month of gathering what materials he can without looking suspicious, but at the end of it all, he knows he’s got this in the bag, that no one will be able to stop him once he’s out the door. He makes an effort not to act any differently than he usually does in the days beforehand, continuing to flirt and joke with his fellow researchers as the days tick on, until finally, on a dreary and completely average Tuesday afternoon, he makes his escape.

Nothing ever happens on Tuesdays. This, among other reasons- not the least of which is impatience- is why Bright leaves on this day in particular. He spends the first half of his day like any other, fulfilling his on-site duties and continuing his research on a number of SCPs. If it just so happens that he finishes a lot of projects today, then it isn’t a big deal; no one will even notice until it’s too late. At exactly twelve-fifteen in the afternoon, Bright excuses himself from a meeting to go to the restroom. Hardly anyone bats an eye, though a few people grumble about him practically getting to leave the meeting early, since it ends at twelve-thirty, but they’re not suspicious of him yet, therefore there’s no reason to stop him.

Hurriedly, but not so much that it’s noticeable, Bright gathers his belongings and leaves the meeting hall, but instead of going to the restroom not three doors down from him, he skips it in favor of the stairwell, going instead to the restroom two floors below him. It’s a single stall family restroom, typically reserved for staff personnel who need to take care of small children while on the clock, but it’s not inappropriate or even frowned upon for other staff members to use it, too. Bright locks the door once he’s inside, and after taking a moment to breathe, he removes one of the floor tiles near the toilet, revealing a large backpack underneath. He smirks, setting the sack next to him before digging through it’s contents.

Inside is a change of clothes, a wallet containing around three-thousand dollars in cash, a fake ID card, a bottle of hair dye, and a pair of lens-less glasses. There’s also a wrapped up parcel at the bottom of the bag, but Bright leaves it be for now, preferring to pull his lab coat off and stuff it in the bag, followed by his turtleneck and t-shirt. Now bare from the waist up, the researcher wastes no time going to the sink and dying his hair a deep, rich auburn with the provided hair dye, unable to keep back the slightest of smiles as he does so. His current host looks so much like his original body, save for being blond and having better eyesight. If Bright is going to die, then he wants to die in a body that looks as much like him as he can get away with, so dying his hair, in his opinion, is very much necessary for today’s plans.

“One step closer,” Bright whispers to himself, watching as his wet hair hangs in front of his eyes and blocks some of his vision, the dark red of his hair setting in perfectly, just as he hoped it would. “Just a few more steps, and it’ll be over.”

It feels weird talking to himself like this. To be fair though, everything about Bright’s life has been weird, from the very day he was born. He was born five years after Mikell, who he feels like he hasn’t seen in decades. Reportedly, he’s away on a field mission. Even if they _are_ brothers, Bright doesn’t know if he has the energy to care where his kin has run off to anymore; it’s not like they were close for very long, especially once Mikell grew up and became an MTF. It still hurts, though. In his preparations for his suicide, Bright has made an effort to visit both TJ and Sarah, and he even got to call Mom for a few hours the other day, but Mikell… well, he’s a hard man to get ahold of. The researcher shakes his head, trying to rid himself of the thought.

 _“It’s not my fault Mikell won’t talk to me,”_ Bright tries to assure himself, even as his hands grow clammy and his throat itches with his growing desire to cry. _“I’ve done all I can to get in contact with him; either he’s dead, or he’s busy. I guess I’ll find out pretty soon.”_

Careful to make as little noise as possible, Bright goes about brushing his newly reddened hair, relieved that it’s drying rather fast. Once he looks a little more decent, he pulls back on his turtleneck, but instead of putting on his lab coat as well, he simply pockets the wallet, zips up his bag, pulls it on, and walks to the back of the restroom. There, Bright pulls back yet another tile, this one coming from the wall, to reveal a keypad. He types in the numbers he learned from nabbing Dr. Clef’s notebook last week, his efforts rewarded a moment later as the keypad beeps in confirmation, and a doorway appears where wall tiles once stood. Bright smirks, heading inside without delay, not even blinking as the door slams shut behind him, the whir of machinery in the walls promising it’s hidden itself once more.

How Clef built this place without the rest of the foundation finding out, Bright honestly has no idea, but he supposes he’ll never know, seeing as he has no intention of ever seeing the man again. The hallway Bright has found himself in is dark as all hell, with only the soft glow of crimson overhead lights to guide him. He follows the hallway for quite a long while, forced to march up a number of different stairwells on his way out, until he’s greeted by yet another door at the end of a long hallway. Again, the researcher types a password into the available keypad, this one different from the first. This door, to his relief, gives the same beep the first one did after he types in the code, opening up without any trouble. Taking a deep breath, Bright steps through the door, unable to keep back a smile as fresh air brushes through his still damp hair.

It’s overcast outside, with hardly any signs of the sun still existing hiding behind such a thick layer of clouds, but Bright can’t say he minds all that much. After all, this isn’t exactly meant to be a happy occasion, even if it will be freeing. He finds himself in the middle of god knows where, surrounded on all sides by a wide open field, the wheat all around him high and overgrown. The doorway behind him closes like the first, and when Bright glances around to look at it, he sees that the secret entrance into the foundation is disguised as a vacant tool shop. For some reason, it makes the doctor laugh, something about Clef owning a tool shop sounding so in-character to him. Smiling now, Bright trudges through the plains ahead of him, keeping his mouth screwed firmly shut to keep from breathing in too much pollen.

It takes over an hour of walking, but eventually, Bright reaches a highway. He follows it in silence, watching from the corner of his eye for any incoming cars or trucks. It’s been, to put it lightly, a _very_ long time since Dr. Bright has left the foundation. The few times he’s been allowed off-site these days is so he can be transported to another one, but for the first time since he was a teenager, he’s without the foundation. But even then, has he ever _really_ been without the foundation? His father joined them over a decade before he was even _born,_ and he started raising Jack and Mikell on-site after the foundation took TJ and Sarah away when the boys were twelve and seventeen respectively. To Bright, there’s never been anything _but_ the foundation, and even as he feels the growing rush of freedom fill his belly like warm soup, he can also feel a deep, dreadful fear take root in his bones.

Before the fear can truly set in however, Bright feels a gust of wind from behind him, and instinctively, he throws out his arm and gives a thumbs up, praying internally that Mikell didn’t teach him the wrong hand signal for hitchhikers back when they were kids. In a matter of moments, a large red pick-up truck begins to slow down a bit behind Bright, coming to a stop only a few feet ahead of him. The doctor jogs to catch up, doing his best to fight back his desire to pull out a weapon and threaten the driver for his car. If he wants to get to the nearest city without being found out, he’s going to have to play it cool, something Dr. Rights has told him a thousand times over that he’s _terrible_ at. Shaking his head, Bright tries to smile for the driver, but he worries he just comes off as creepy more than anything else.

“Howdy, partner,” The driver speaks with a thick, southern drawl that vaguely reminds Bright of Clef’s terrible cowboy impression. “You lookin’ for a ride? I’ve still got quite a ways to go ‘til I get to my stop, but I’d be happy to give ya a lift along the way.”

“Thank you, sir, that would be very much appreciated.” Bright says, keeping his head down when he speaks. It’s not uncommon for the foundation to have plants all over the world, so some part of him can’t help but remain cautious, even when he’s being offered help.

The driver pauses, seemingly trying to gauge what kind of person Bright is. “…You from around here?” The man asks after a solid minute of staring at him, his eyes squinted with scrutiny. “Don’t think I’ve seen you ‘round these parts.”

“I’m from a commune a couple miles north of here,” It’s not a _complete_ lie, so Bright doesn’t have as much trouble coming up with a fake backstory, even if he _is_ making some generous changes for the foundation’s sake. After all, just because he’s about to kill himself doesn’t mean he’s going to take everything he’s ever cared about down with him. “I just turned eighteen, so I’m hoping to see what the city is like before settling down.” It’s a bit of a stretch to claim his body is so young, but Bright’s been told a number of times that he has a sort of _boyish charm_ to him, even if it is usually an insult.

“Really now? Congratulations, son!” The driver is nothing if not friendly, unlocking the passenger door to his car without delay. “Hop on in, there’s plenty ‘a room for ya!”

Again, Bright is all too tempted to rob this hillbilly of his truck, but… well, he’s not exactly a good or even kind person, but he _does_ have empathy, and after actually meeting the guy, he can’t help but want to spare his life… even if this guy _is_ too nice for his own good.

“Thank you very much, sir,” Bright says, not even trying to fake a southern accent as he clambers into the pick-up, having to hoist himself up to reach the door, but he’ll blame that on the ridiculously large wheels rather than his own short stature. “So, what are you going to the city for?” He tries to start up a casual conversation, if only to be polite.

The driver shrugs, only continuing to drive once Bright has buckled himself in. “I’m goin’ quite a bit farther than that, actually. Headin’ to Wyoming to pick up some stock for my brother-in-law, then I'll be back home to the missus. Might get some souvenirs for the kids, too.”

Bright smirks at that, spotting the perfect conversation piece to keep this guy distracted until they reach his destination. “You have kids? What are they like, if you don’t mind me asking?”

As expected, the driver perks up right away, and goes off on a long, _long_ tangent about his children back home. From what Bright catches from the conversation, the driver’s name is Thomas- _“But you can just call me Tom!”_ he says more than three times- and he’s got about seven kids with his wife, which is quite a lot by modern day standards, but then again, Bright knows his own parents have had a lot of children as well, so he’s not one to judge. Tom rambles about his kids for well over two hours straight, only stopping to ask his passenger the occasional question about his own life, his tone fatherly and kind. Bright, in turn, does his best not to give too much about himself away, but then again, he’s on a one-way trip here, so he probably tells the stranger more than he ought to.

“Yeah, I have about four siblings back home; one older brother, one little brother, and two younger sisters.” Bright says, surprised by how relaxed he feels in the stranger’s presence. Perhaps Tom is some kind of SCP that makes people more relaxed than they should be? No, that’s not it… that’s the foundation talking, not him.

“One of the oldest, then? Must have a lotta responsibilities weighin’ on yer shoulders,” Tom seems almost surprised by the news, likely because he views Bright as so young compared to himself. “How old did you say you were again, son? Sixteen?”

“Eighteen, s- Tom,” Bright mutters, barely catching himself before he calls the man by such a formal title again. He’s supposed to seem like a naive but sweet young adult right now, not a forty-seven year old piloting a criminal’s corpse. “Sure, I have a lot of work to do back home, but it’s not like my siblings can’t fend for themselves sometimes. Even if TJ is-” He stops, realizing what he just said. “I’m sorry, forget I said that.

“TJ? That one ‘a your brothers?” Tom asks, curious.

Bright considers killing Tom here and now, if only because he fears retribution from the foundation for saying TJ’s name out loud, but… the foundation isn’t _here,_ right? He’s going to die by nightfall, so why call TJ anything else? For a moment, Bright recalls his last visit with his younger brother. It was just last night after dinner, the memory fresh and colorful in his otherwise pessimistically black and white mind. _He planned it well, only going in after SCP-590 had been given his evening meal and was about to be put to bed for the night. Jack had dismissed the guards outside his brother’s cell who, fully believing that the doctor would never disobey the foundation after years of ceaseless devotion, let him in with little more than a reminder that it was almost time for SCP-590 to go to bed._

 _Although TJ has been treated like a tool since the foundation took him in, he’s been given a number of luxury items over the years of his imprisonment. At the time that Jack came to visit him, he saw the room was actually quite a mess, with a number of small dinosaur action figures scattered about the room, alongside a few drawings and broken crayons. The walls were absolutely_ covered _in SCP-590’s artwork, most of which depicted foundation staff and his favorite cartoon characters. Speaking of cartoons, SCP-590 was sat cross-legged in front of his room’s TV, clutching a stuffed Pikachu to his chest as he watched one of his beloved kids shows, which Jack recognized to be Steven Universe. He didn’t know much about the show, but he was glad SCP-590 likes it so much._

_Once alone with his brother, Jack hadn’t hesitated; he crossed the room, kneeled down by the teenager’s side, and pulled him into a tight hug._

_“‘Octer Bite?” SCP-590’s voice was hoarse, his eyes filling with tears as he was flooded with all of the emotional turmoil inside of his brother. “Why you sad?” He practically babbled out the question, too mentally regressed to ask anything more complex than that._

_“It’s been a long day, buddy,” Jack lied, because even if SCP-590 could feel his pain in that moment, he didn’t want him to know just how bad it was. “So I came to check on you, make sure you were okay.”_

_“Me is okay,” SCP-590 said, tilting his head at the older male. “Why cry? Why sad?” He repeated his questions from before, all while raising a hand to Jack’s face, wiping at the tears spilling from his eyes._

_At that point, Jack could barely hold it together anymore, so without another word, he physically picked his brother up and walked to the only available place to sit, that being SCP-590’s recently cleaned bed, and sat down with the younger male curled up in his lap, his legs bony and awkward as they tried to adjust to the unfamiliar position. It had been a long time since the two brothers had been that close to each other, the duo too deeply scrutinized and tested to be anything more than strangers, but in that moment, Jack hadn’t cared; he just wanted to hug his damn brother, and if he could have his way, never let go of him again, even if it meant losing everything the foundation had given him._

_  
_

_For a few minutes, neither male spoke, but eventually, Jack found the words he was looking for._

_“TJ,” He said the name so quietly, he could barely hear it, but judging by the gasp SCP-590 let out, he heard his big brother loud and clear. “I know you don’t remember what it was like before the foundation took us. You don’t remember the puppet shows Mom and Dad put on for us, or the dumb way Mikell used to laugh, or how Claire always wanted to hold your hand when we went places, or the sound Sarah made when she first cried, or even all the times I would read and play with you, but… those moments_ mattered, _and they still do. Nothing is ever going to be like that again, but I want you to know that I loved you back then, and I still love you now,” Suddenly, Jack let out a small, hoarse sob, the last of his resolve breaking down into small, shattered pieces of regret. “You’re not even going to remember this conversation in a few days, and you’ll probably forget me not long after that, but… I love you, TJ. I wish I could’ve saved you from this, but I can’t. All I can do is go away, and hope they’ll let you go someday, too. I’m sorry that I’m not brave enough to give you the freedom I’m about to take for myself.”_

_Again, it was quiet for a long time, Jack just sitting on the bed and sobbing his heart out. To both his relief and sadness, SCP-590 didn’t cry as well, but considering how far gone he was… well, if anyone was to blame for a lack of response, it was Jack himself, which only made him cry even harder, devastated by all he had done in his short life. He had done a lot of horrible, evil things up to that point, but nothing quite compared to what he’d done to his baby brother. Yes, mentally destroying SCP-590 to the point that he was hardly aware of what was happening did indeed save him, in that it took away the pain and suffering, but was it really worth it? Was it worth it to take away everything that Timothy Jason Bright was, and replace him with a lifeless husk of the boy he used to be? In that moment, hugging his baby brother goodbye, Jack wasn’t so sure._

_What eventually freed Jack of his internal struggle, in which he came oh so close to tearing himself apart then and there, was a small, damp hand patting his cheek. He looked up abruptly, his lens-less glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose, to meet the gaze of SCP-590, who looked upon him with wide, dry eyes._

_“Jack-ee.” SCP-590 said it with something close to conviction, and although his eyes held little more than their usual emptiness, Jack realized that he saw more in there; the closest thing to recognition he’d seen from SCP-590 since before his mind had deteriorated to it’s current state._

_“Yeah… that- that’s me, TJ. It’s Jackie, your big brother,” Jack whispered, voice low and soft, like he was still afraid of being caught, like one wrong move would destroy that beautiful moment forever and leave him with even more regret than before. “Do you remember me, TJ? Do you remember Jackie?”_

_SCP-590’s eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, eyes quizzical._

_Jack had to bite his lip from crying. “It- It’s okay, TJ… you don’t have to remember me. Just… just know that Jackie loves you, okay? He loves you more than anyone else.”_

_Although he hadn’t understood, SCP-590 nodded, possibly too confused to ask anymore questions._

“Kid? _Kid!”_

Bright snaps out of it at the sound of a shout, nearly jumping out of his seat in the process of coming to his senses. “Huh? What? What happened? Where am I?” He asks, stuttering and out of touch, like he’s just stepped off of a spaceship for the first time in years.

“Ya look like ya were on a one-way trip to dreamland, son. And yer ridin’ in my truck, headin’ to the city,” Tom says as he stares at Bright with very obvious concern written on his face, his mouth shaped into an uneasy grimace. “You alright there, kid? You look pale as a ghost.”

Bright shakes his head, struggling to reorient himself. “Yeah… yeah, I’m fine.”

Tom huffs. “Don’t seem like it,” He mutters, not falling for Bright’s halfassed lie. “Was it somethin’ I said? You mentioned somebody named TJ earlier. Is he important to ya?”

Bright turns his head and stares out the window, not trusting himself to look the stranger in the eyes. “He’s, um… he’s my little brother.”

“Thought so,” Tom says, hardly fazed anymore by Bright’s outburst. Either he’s met someone as jumpy as Bright before, or he’s just a really empathetic guy; either way, his nonchalant attitude is rather hard for the researcher to cope with. “Don’t go beatin’ yerself up for leavin’ ‘im for a spell, son. Yer eighteen now, aintcha? Gotta take some time to figure life out on yer own.”

Bright swallows, hating how dry his throat feels. “You don’t understand,” He says, trying not to sound too accusatory, especially since Tom isn’t the least bit involved in this matter. “My brother, he’s… he’s mentally really young, even though he's a teenager now. And it’s all my fault.”

“Can’t be yer fault, son. Just genetics.” To Bright’s surprise, Tom is much more scientific than he expected, but then again, you shouldn’t judge a book by it’s cover.

“It _is_ my fault, though,” Bright repeats, more insistent this time. He glares at the passing wheat fields outside, loathing the concrete fortress so many miles away from him by now, which he can’t even _see,_ he can only imagine it looming over him, cold and clinical to a fault. Just like him. “When we were little, I…” He struggles to come up with a suitable lie, for something that’s close but not quite the truth, but he manages well enough. “We were playing in the backyard, and I decided to climb a tall tree that our dad was planning on putting a tree-house in. TJ… he followed me up, even though I told him not to, and when he fell, it broke something in his head. Now he hardly recognizes anyone or anything, and it’s all my fault.” The fake story doesn’t really demonstrate how at fault Bright really feels, but if he told Tom the truth, he has a feeling he’d either be shot in the head, thrown out of the truck, or driven to an insane asylum.

“Aw, _son.”_ Tom says it in such a soft, loving way, Bright feels tears fill his eyes, and once again, he’s brought to a moment from his past.

_“The experiment worked exactly as expected,” Jack refused to look anyone in the eyes as he gave the council his full report, the weight of his superiors’ eyes on him feeling heavier than the world itself. “After exposing SCP-590 to a number of mentally challenged individuals, he has absorbed their mental illnesses and rendered himself too handicapped to feel pain or resist further experimentation. His powers still work just as they did before, but now SCP-590 shall be expected to perform far better than he did before, with no need for any further doses of SCP-500 unless his healing abilities cannot handle a specific injury, which I doubt will happen again, given his lack of response to pain after my experiment finished.”_

_There was a soft murmuring amongst the O5 council, the assembled figureheads not even bothering to look at the junior researcher as they talked with one another. This was years and years ago, before Jack became one with SCP-963, before Mikell was recruited into the O5 council, before Claire ran away and joined that damn snake cult, before… before a lot of things, honestly. In that moment, Jack felt smaller than he ever had in his life, his resolve so unbearably close to breaking, but he held it together for the sake of his own well-being. If the council knew just how much it hurt him to damage TJ, if they knew that Jack still even_ referred _to his brother by that name when he was alone… it would’ve all ended then and there. Luckily- or perhaps not, considering his future- the council didn’t notice Jack’s inner turmoil, eventually nodding their heads approvingly at the young doctor._

_“Yes, very good work, Dr. Bright. That was a brilliant idea, and judging by your notes on SCP-590’s current behavior, it seems to have had no ill side effects other than that the SCP’s mental capacity has been significantly lowered.” One of the O5 members eventually praised Jack’s work, though the doctor couldn’t actually see her face to know if she was lying or not, the poor lighting in the room making it impossible to make out anyone on the council’s features; although he was still new to the foundation at the time, Jack knew even then that this was a very intentional choice on the council’s part._

_“Thank you, ma’am,” Jack said, keeping his head ducked in a mix of shame and fear, mostly at the prospect of being found out. “It was difficult to find the appropriate subjects for testing, but thanks to the council’s support and resources, my team and I were able to get the job done in record time. I look forward to helping the foundation with more projects in the future, and doing my part to keep the world safe with our work.”_

_“And we look forward to working more with_ you, _Dr. Bright. With that, this meeting is hereby adjourned.” O5-1’s voice was stern and clear, and just like that, the lights all flashed back on._

_By the time Jack’s eyes had adjusted to the light, the O5 council had dispersed… save for one member, the newest on the board. Although he had met with this man a countless number of times in his life, and knew him on a deeply personal level, Jack still couldn’t help but choke on his tongue when looking across the room at his father. Adam Bright had looked much the same as he always had, his long, curly red hair knotted with an elastic tie behind his head to keep it looking somewhat close to professional, his square, black-frame glasses only adding to the stern, emotionless look he was going for with his new position. Jack felt uneasy in the man’s presence, his shoulders hunched as he subtly backed up towards the door. Maybe if he hurried out, he wouldn’t have to-_

_“-Ah, Doctor. Before you go, I’d just like to ask you a few more questions regarding your work.”_

_Jack swallowed, feeling every bone in his body shiver with dread._

_“Yes- Yes, sir. Right away, sir,” Jack whispered, wanting to beat himself to a bloody pulp for daring to embarrass himself in front of a superior with that damn, terrible stutter of his. Slowly, Jack crept closer to the other scientist, half scared he would be grabbed and killed at any moment. “Is there anything I can, um,_ do _for you, sir?”_

_Adam Bright seemed to stare into his son’s very soul at that moment, the action doing nothing to ease Jack’s ever-present anxiety._

_After a long, horrible pause, Adam smiled slightly, clapping a heavy hand on the younger man’s shoulder. Jack tried not to flinch. “Good work with SCP-590, son. I’m very proud of the work you’ve accomplished since you were hired by the foundation. Not even a year yet, and you’re already being considered for a promotion! Of course, I would expect nothing less from one of my children.”_

_Doing his best not to quake in his father’s presence, Jack nodded. “Thank you, sir.”_

_“Now now son, we’re alone here. I’m still your father, and I don’t have a problem with you referring to me as such. Unless of course you think you’re too big to call me ‘Daddy’ anymore,” Adam said, even laughing a bit at his own joke If he noticed Jack’s discomfort, he didn’t comment on it, preferring to just pretend like everything was fine. “So, where did you come up with the idea of making SCP-590 absorb mental illnesses? The council wasn’t wrong; that was a great idea, Jack!”_

_“Oh, it was nothing really. I just wanted to make his pain stop, and seeing as some mental disabilities hinder the pain response in one’s brain… it just made sense to me.” Jack rambled it out, unable to hold eye contact with the other man._

_Adam shrugged, likely chalking up his son’s soft-spoken attitude to modesty. “Either way, you did a great job! Keep this up and you’ll be doing as well as Mikell is out in the field. Speaking of which, he hasn’t been responding to my calls lately. Have you heard from him? Last I heard, he’s dealing with some crap on the coast of Italy.”_

_Jack gulped, biting his tongue to keep from spilling the beans. “Um, no, I haven’t,” He lied, not wanting to tell his father that Mikell had made him promise not to tell Adam about their frequent calls. Calls that would peter out and stop overtime, but Jack didn’t know that just yet, and even if he had, he still wouldn't have broken his promise. “Have you asked Mom? I bet she’d know.” He tried moving the other man along like a dog, tempting him with someone else to go bark at._

_Adam huffed at that, and all at once, Jack wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He shouldn’t have mentioned her. “I wouldn’t count on it… your mother hasn’t been contacting me, either. I’m fairly certain she’d divorce me at this point, if we weren’t more or less stuck together.”_

_“Stuck together?” The phrase had caught Jack off-guard, something about it sounding strange to him. “What do you mean by-”_

_“-Well, would you look at the time! The council has another meeting soon, so I should really get ready for that,” Adam cut Jack off before he could get his question out, the older man giving his son another series of hard pats on the back, which only made Jack more uncomfortable, feeling as if he didn’t deserve his father’s praise or attention. Adam smiled at his son, and while it might’ve_ meant _to be a comfort, it made the junior researcher shiver with dread. “Be good to yourself, alright? Your mother would_ kill me _if anything happened to another one of our kids. Oh, and keep impressing the foundation; lord only knows how much worse things would be if we pissed off the wrong people, right?”_

_Jack heard the threat for what it was. “Yes, sir. I won’t let you or anyone else down.” He was sure of himself when he said it, having so much more hope back then, so much more faith. All for nothing._

_Adam stared at Jack again, his eyes clouded with…_ something. _In that moment, Jack hoped it was worry, but he never could tell when it came to his father. “See that you don’t. Be good for me, James.” With that, he strode militantly out of the room, disappearing into the far too bright corridor beyond._

When Bright comes back to, he catches the tail end of what Tom was rambling about when he zoned out on him again.

“-And that’s that on that!” Tom says, ending his tirade with a laugh, much to the researcher’s surprise. Weren’t they just talking about something rather _grim?_ Taking a long look at the hillbilly, Bright wonders if Tom is just the sort of man that prefers covering up his emotions with laughter and jokes.

“Thank you, Tom. That helped a lot.” Bright lies, if only so Tom won’t go repeating himself if he realizes that his passenger wasn’t listening.

Tom smiles, giving Bright a good look at his yellowed, crowded teeth. “Much obliged, son! It’s always a pleasure to shoot the shit with a new friend, even if that friend is as tongue-tied and troubled as you!” He cackles at that, and wow, he really reminds Bright of Dr. Clef, but if Dr. Clef were thirty percent less deranged and could actually pull off a decent southern accent.

Bright gives the weakest of smiles in return, continuing to nod along as Tom goes off on yet another tangent, this one about the state’s football team and how crappy their draft picks have apparently been this season. Subtly, Bright leans his head against the window, close to dozing off after a night of so little sleep, but he somehow manages to stay awake, the low bumps of the pick-up on the long, dirt road in front of him keeping him just aware enough to stay conscious. In a way, he hates it, but perhaps sleeping isn’t the best idea, especially considering his, in Tom’s lightly butchered words, “troubled mind” always bombarding him with such awful, terrifying memories and thoughts. In a few hours, they’ll all be gone with the wind, but for now, Bright stares at the world outside and pretends he won’t miss it.

* * *

“Ya sure this is where ya wanna get out, son? I can drive ya in further if ya need me to. Not Like I’m not already headin’ all the way through.” Tom is, quite obviously, concerned about dropping who he believes is a teenager off on the edge of a huge, unfamiliar city, but Bright waves him off like it’s no big deal.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll be alright. I’ve got a friend picking me up soon!” Bright lies, trying to appear laidback so this relative stranger won’t worry about him. He’s already going to be causing enough turmoil as it is, and he’d rather not have his death weigh on anymore consciences. “Have a good drive, Tom, and thank you again for the ride!”

Tom grimaces, looking close to arguing with Bright or even outright dragging him back into his truck, but in the end he sighs, knowing he doesn’t have any control of the situation. “Alrighty, then. Just… be _careful,_ son. Yer too young to be so damn _sad.”_ He says it in such a depressed tone, Bright’s half worried he knows how today will end for the researcher, but before he can gather the nerve to ask, Tom is driving away, kicking up a thick cloud of dust on his way out.

Bright coughs, ragged and deep, as the dirt mixes with the air and invades his lungs. _Curse this bullshit body for having asthma!_ He manages to catch his bearings after a good minute or so of hacking like an animal, though the experience leaves his eyes red rimmed and wet, as if he just mourned the loss of a beloved friend or pet. Shaking his head, Bright more or less stumbles into the beginnings of the city, his eyes widening slightly at the sights before him. He doesn’t actually _know_ what city this is- he hasn’t known where he is for a long time, the foundation never telling him where sites are located when he’s taken to them- but this city looks how he’s always imagined New York City does; impossibly tall, full of skyscrapers, and in a strange, modern age sort of way, beautiful.

It’s also much more familiar than wheat fields and dirt roads, so Bright is automatically inclined to like it better than the countryside. His head held almost high, but not quite, the researcher marches like a soldier down the roaring, busy street ahead of him, his heart pounding with adrenaline the whole time. He’s never been around so many _people_ before! Well, maybe he has, like when he was a little kid, but seeing as he can’t remember much of his childhood, Bright won’t count it. As much as the new scenery is a spectacle in and of itself, and amazes him everywhere he looks, a sense of being watched by too many eyes slowly washes over Bright, leaving him a bit shaky and scattered, like he can’t keep himself in one place for long.

Almost frantically, he holds out an arm and starts waving for a taxi, relieved when one stops next to him within a minute of flailing. Cities really _are_ good for their transportation!

Bright clambers into the backseat, struggling not to trip on his own feet he’s so anxious. “Hotel Plaza on 13th street, please.” He tries not to bark out the order, but he knows he doesn’t come off as particularly polite.

The cab driver gives a mute nod, returning to the main road to continue driving.

Now entrenched in a quieter location, Bright lets out a long, bone-deep sigh, relieved to be away from all the hustle and bustle. How do normal people _live_ like this!? Sure, the city is pretty, there’s no use denying that, but it’s too damn _loud!_ For a brief moment, the researcher almost wishes he’d shot himself in the head while just standing out in one of the wheat fields near the foundation, simply letting himself die all quiet and fast, but it wouldn’t have felt right, not really. To be fair, nothing about this quite feels right, but Bright is trying his best here, and he’s decided that he wants to die alone, yet still close to people, if only so he’ll be found relatively soon after he dies. No need to rot.

And hey, if all goes according to plan, his death might even seem pretty.

“You alright back there?” The cab driver asks it so abruptly, it makes Bright jump in surprise, eliciting a brief chuckle from the driver. “Easy there, sir. I ain’t tryin’ to scare you. Mind if I put my music on?”

Bright grimaces, nodding a bit too hard. “Uh, sure, whatever.” He actually tries to be rude now, if only to shut the driver up; he is _not_ about to undergo another four hours of stories!

The driver shrugs, unaffected by the doctor’s sour attitude. He doesn’t say anything else, thank god, preferring to just slip a CD into the disk slot of his cab, the low hum of unfamiliar music filling the air.

The music is almost dream-like, low and deep, but strangely nice all the same. Bright closes his eyes, simply listening for awhile, his mind for once blissfully quiet, if only for a short time.

After ten minutes, in which Bright has used his burner phone to download the entire CD’s album for his brief future’s use, the device buzzes with the alert of a new text, catching him off-guard. Why would he be getting a text on his burner phone? He _did_ add the phone numbers of pretty much every foundation member he’s ever worked with into it, if only so he can mass-text them all one last goodbye before he dies, but Bright hasn’t texted _anyone_ on this yet. It would be stupid to, honestly; it would make it easy for the foundation to find him, and frankly, he doesn’t _want_ to be found until his corpse is cold and this damn amulet gives his spirit up.

Rather hesitantly, Bright opens up the messenger app, his heartbeat feeling so loud that it pulses in his ears.

“[I see you, Jack.]”

Bright’s entire body goes ice cold, his eyes wide and fearful. He looks around frantically, trying to look at the passing silhouettes of people outside, but no one’s looking at him. Hell, even the cab driver won’t glance back at him anymore, too busy driving and tapping his fingers to the latest track’s surprisingly upbeat tune.

“[Where are you?]” Jack types his message quick as lightning, praying for a quick answer, which he’s lucky enough to receive a moment later.

“[Far away. Too far to reach you,]” The answer is a bit of a surprise, considering how threatening the first one reads as, but another one comes quickly after, apparently to explain this whole interaction in it’s own, cryptic way. “[I see you, Jack. I may not see you in person, but I see you just the same, as I always have. You’ve wandered rather far from home, haven’t you? I honestly didn’t expect this from someone as devoted as you. Have you finally woken up?]”

The way that last sentence is phrased… it doesn’t send Bright fully spiraling into the past, not like if the words were spoken out loud to him, but images quickly flood into his mind, so fast and hazy he can barely make them out, but he’s seen them enough times by now to know what they are. There’s a cabin in the woods, bigger than you’d expect to be, with a family of six and a seventh on the way, all happy before their lives went to hell. There’s a tree-house a mile into the woods, aged and weathered by the rain, but it’s the clubhouse, and it’s enough for them. There’s cuts all over his hands from where he yanked up prickly weeds in the yard to try and surprise Mama, tears streaming down his cheeks, when TJ reaches forward and holds his hands in his own, the cuts sinking away and growing on him instead. There’s Claire in a lab’s doorway, tears in her eyes but refusing to fall, her jaw set with all the defiance she’s always shown the world.

_“Call me when you wake up, Jack.” Was all Claire said, disappearing like a phantom in the night. He hasn’t seen her since._

Bright swallows, feeling heavy and alone, even as his shaking fingers reach out through text, wanting more when he knows he doesn’t owe his sister anything, much less a message after years and years of silence. But she’s _still_ his baby sister, and for the life of him, Bright can’t erase that connection from his mind, not after already losing so much.

“[Why are you contacting me, Claire? Why now?]”

The response isn’t as swift this time, almost like Claire is hesitating on the other end. “[I may not know where you are, but I know you’re out of the foundation’s sight right now. They’ve already started looking for you, you know.]”

Bright curses, even though he isn’t _that_ surprised. The foundation is feared for a reason. “[Well, that still doesn’t answer my question. Why are you contacting me? I thought you never wanted to see me again.]”

“[I never said that to _you,_ Jack. I said that to Mikell; there’s a big difference, mainly being that I think you’re still a good person.]” Claire replies, right back to being fast.

That actually catches Jack off-guard. He almost wants to prod Claire for more information, for a reason why she still gives a damn about him when she so clearly hates Mikell, but he doesn’t think he can bear to know. “[You’re a poor judge of character,]” He offers instead, almost comical. He follows it up quickly, getting back to the matter at hand. “[So what is this _really_ about, Claire? Trying to recruit me into your snake cult?]”

“[It’s no more a cult than the foundation is,]” Claire says, her resentment for the foundation unapologetic. Some things never change. “[This isn’t really about them, though. This is about _you,_ Jack. Why did you leave?]”

“[Needed some fresh air, that’s all.]” It’s a piss-poor excuse and Bright knows it, but he tries anyway, hoping Claire will just give up and leave him to succumb to his demons in peace.

As expected, Claire sees right through him. “[Don’t lie to me, James. _Why did you leave?_ You’ve always been too loyal for your own good; I don’t see why you’d ever run away, even after all they’ve done to us. Unless… is TJ okay?]”

Even if he’s not on the best of terms with Claire, Bright isn’t about to make her worry about her twin brother. “[TJ is fine, and so are Sarah and Mikell. I just… look, it’s not a big deal, okay? I just wanted out for a bit.]”

“[You and I _both_ know that won’t end well. If the foundation finds you, you’ll be in more trouble than you’ve ever been in before. They’ll _contain you,_ Jack.]” Claire’s message is edging on frantic, her concern potent and realer than anything else. It makes Bright feel even worse about all of this, if that’s even possible.

“[You shouldn’t be wasting energy being worried about me, sis. I’ll be fine,]” Bright tries to comfort Claire through his phone, still terrified of her realizing what’s about to happen to him. He knows she’ll feel guilty either way- she’s a good person like that- but if he gives her no wiggle room to question him, no one will have any legs to stand on if/when they try blaming her for his fate. “[By the way, how’re you doing? Anything interesting going on on your end?]”

“[You’re not getting out of this _that_ easily, brother o’ mine,]” Claire types, and damn, even through text Bright can hear the sheer _snark_ in his sister’s voice, so giddy to get a reaction out of him like when they were kids, but this time it’s much, _much_ more serious than a simple joke at his expense. “[I can tell something is wrong, Jack. I know we haven’t talked in a long time, and I don’t really have any say on what happens in your life, but you know that I still love you, right? Whatever you’re doing, it’s not good, and I really don’t want you to get hurt, Jack. Please, whatever is going on, you can talk to me about it. I’m here for you.]”

Bright feels something in him swirl and tighten, a knot of guilt that refuses to loosen or fray under the pressure. He feels cornered, stuck between his sister’s stubbornness and what he sees as his inevitable demise. Even if he turned back now, threw in the towel and let the foundation take him back, Claire’s right; they’ll contain him like all the other SCPs in their custody, and then he’ll never be considered a person ever again. He’s practically already dead; he can’t just dig himself up and pretend he was never buried. Of course, there’s always the possibility that Claire could come get him instead, maybe enlist him in her cult, but Bright knows he could never betray the foundation like that. So if he can’t go back, and he can’t run away… he hopes that, once this is over and done with, Claire will understand and not blame herself for what her idiot big brother did to himself.

“[I know you are, sis,]” Bright types slowly, his fingers feeling swollen and hot, like they might just explode at any moment. “[I love you so much, Claire, and I’m sorry, but there’s nothing you can do to help me right now. I’ll be okay. Stay safe, alright? I know you hate Mikell, but when this is over with… please reach out to him. I know he’ll reach out to you too, because he loves you just as much as I do.]” He ends it there, knowing all too well that Claire will read between the lines and realize what he’s saying, will realize what he’s going to do, but he doesn’t know what else he can say to placate her.

After Bright sends the text, he feels his phone buzz at least six or seven more times in quick succession, and with each vibration he can feel his resolve breaking. But it’s too late. He can’t turn back now, not when there’s nothing left for him. It’s this, or being an SCP, and he knows that death is a much lighter sentence.

“We’re here,” The driver’s voice cuts through the dense cloud hover over Bright. It’s not even loud, but it still makes the researcher jump. The driver, whose face now seems so fuzzy and lacking of physical features, stares at Bright, but his expression is incomprehensible. “Hey, are you alright back there, man? You look like you're gonna pass out.”

Bright nods, not trusting his voice enough to speak. He fumbles with his wallet, shoving well over a hundred dollars into the tip box on his way out of the cab. He doesn’t look back. Instead, he stumbles into the hotel lobby, feeling more out of place with each step he takes.

* * *

The hotel was booked in advance, and for that Bright is grateful for his own forethought, something he’s half certain he doesn’t have most of the time, especially not when his conversation with Claire still has him spiraling, his movements slow and unsteady, making him look almost drunk. As a result of his preparations, all Bright has to do when he gets into the lobby is give his name (a fake one, of course) and room number, and a moment later he’s presented with a shiny silver key card. The doctor takes it with a lopsided, unconvincing smile, giving the receptionist a flirtatious wink to try and look less out of it, though he doubts that he’s successful. He then shuffles quietly through the hotel lobby, keeping his head down until he makes it into an elevator which is, by some miracle, empty.

Then again, it _is_ Tuesday, and with no big events being held in the city at the moment… well, at least it means there are less people around to see his corpse and be traumatized. The room is on the second to highest floor of the hotel, though that’s more for scenery than anything else, because no, Jack Bright has no intention of jumping to his death, not when he’s gone to such extreme measures to get away. He wants it to be slower than that, more intimate and real. For this reason and this reason alone, he’s made certain that his room has a sizable bathtub, which he double checks the minute he gets inside. To his relief, it’s perfectly sized for the job; not so big that he’ll have a lot of room to flail and panic, but enough that he can lie down and relax as the life drains out of his body.

Looks like it should all go off without a hitch after all, so long as no one catches him before it’s done. Bright can’t say he’s disappointed by this outcome. Oh sure, he’s known for his dramatics and difficulty to predict back at the foundation, and his siblings can say much the same of his behavior back when he was a small child, but if he can help it, the doctor would rather his suicide be as uneventful as possible. He wants to just disappear into thin air, and with any luck, no one will know he’s dead until it’s been a few days. Offhandedly, Bright hopes the foundation doesn’t send in Mikell’s team to come collect his body. They might not be on the best of terms right now, but even if the brothers were plotting to outright kill each other, Bright knows Mikell wouldn’t be able to handle seeing his corpse in person.

“Maybe I should’ve brought explosives after all,” Bright mutters to himself, his thoughts rolling off his tongue without much forethought. “It would make a bigger mess, sure, but at least there wouldn’t be anything recognizable left, save for the amulet.”

He should really stop thinking about this, before he starts spiraling even further to his death. Fitfully, Bright pulls his backpack off and sits on the toilet, zipping the bag open so he can sort through it’s contents before he does anything else. He tosses his lab coat and glasses aside for now, careful not to drop the parcel when he pulls it out. He stores the package underneath the bathroom sink, tucking it behind a few bottles of complimentary shampoos and conditioners. Bright doesn’t plan on letting anyone into his room until the deed is done with, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful, especially when he’s still worried about the foundation following him. With that in mind, the researcher returns to his suite, flopping onto the bed with a loud groan. Maybe he should take a nap, try to take the edge off a bit.

“I’ll have plenty of time to rest when I’m dead,” Bright says, rolling onto his back and stretching his arms and legs out as much as he can. “Mm… this bed is nicer than I thought it would be. Definitely better than the foundation’s beds, but that isn’t exactly a surprise. Damn cheapskates.”

Why can’t he stop thinking about the damn foundation!? Much as he appreciated hearing from his baby sister, Bright almost wishes she hadn’t texted him, if only so he would have an easier time repressing his emotions right now. In an attempt to relax, the researcher begins undressing himself, kicking off his shoes and socks with all the composure of a ten-year-old, his sneakers smacking noisily against the wall as he throws them away from himself. Next is his jeans, which Bright is all too eager to discard; honestly, it should be a crime to force human beings to wear jeans for more than an hour at a time, and seeing as no one’s here to tell him no, he has no reservations against throwing them off. However, for his own dignity’s sake, he does end up replacing them with a pair of pajama pants.

As he goes about tugging off his sweater, Bright’s free hand fumbles around the nightstand of his new bed, trying to find the pamphlet for the hotel’s room service numbers. It’s only after he has his sweater off that he finds it, needing his eyes to read the numbers properly. He types them into the hotel provided phone without delay, his stomach grumbling all the while. Right now the foundation researchers and scientists should all be having dinner. They’re probably eating something that’s far too stale or suspiciously moist, but not Dr. Bright! No, he plans on eating a _quality_ dinner tonight, something on par with the fanciful meals the foundation gives to the D-Class awaiting execution.

“Hello, and thank you for contacting Hotel Plaza’s customer service!” Once Bright is done typing in the number, a robotic, automated voice rings out on the other end. “For cleaning services, please press one. For room service, please press two. For-”

“-Food!” Bright snaps, fumbling for the two button, which he just barely manages to hit in time.

“One moment please!” And just like that, he’s on hold.

Bright all but groans, none too pleased that he has to wait even longer for his dinner than he expected. Then again, it _is_ pretty late, and he only just got here, so the line is probably busy with other people’s last minute dinner orders. With nothing but the annoying voices of the radio’s latest boy band to distract him, which has nothing on the wonderful band he was listening to earlier, Bright flops down on his bed again, rubbing his free hand on his poor, grumbling tummy. Offhandedly, the doctor turns his head and stares at the ginormous window taking up nearly one whole wall of his hotel room, the city outside looking so much bigger than it did when he was riding in. Well, if nothing else, at least the view is nice.

“Hello, this is Kaitlin speaking! How may I help you today?” At long last, a soft voice cuts off the hold music.

Bright snaps out of his daze, sitting up in bed as he grabs the menu again. “Yes hello, my name is Ja- George Barns, and I’m calling to order some room service for room 113. Is the hotel still serving?” He double checks for good measure, praying that the lobby doesn’t close early on weekdays.

Kaitlin hums, her smile almost audible. She sort of reminds Bright of SCP-166. “Yes, we’re still open! What can I get you tonight, Mr. Barns?”

Bright resists the urge to sigh with relief. “I’d like a filet Mignon cooked medium rare with a side of garlic fries and steamed vegetables. I’d also like to add a large pepperoni pizza to my order,” He almost asks for alcohol as well, but one glance at a nearby mini-fridge assures him that there’s plenty. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to ask for the good stuff. “Also, do you have any premium alcohol to go with your meals? I notice that there’s already some vodka and beer stored in my room’s mini-fridge, but I just wanted to see if there was anything else available.”

“We serve mixed drinks until ten PM tonight,” Kaitlin explains, the sound of papers being ruffled on the other end invading Bright’s ears. “Is there anything specific that you’d like?”

“Whatever is the most fruity and alcoholic thing you’ve got.” Bright puts rather bluntly. He likes alcohol well enough- in fact, he likes to think he’s a connoisseur of the stuff- but he’s always been a bit partial to drinks he can kick back without gagging from the burn.

Kaitlin laughs, high and bubbly. “You’ve got it! Anything else?”

Bright pulls on a slick, uneasy smile, secretly glad Kaitlin can’t see it. “Nope. See ya in a few!”

The minute he hangs up, Bright lets out another exhausted sigh. Good god, does he _hate_ socializing with strangers. It’s fine in the context of work, like when he’s working with researchers and D-Class personnel that he hasn’t met before, but out here, where most everyone is normal and sane and unafraid of the things that go bump in the night… needless to say, the doctor has an incredibly hard time relating to people on the outside. He stays sprawled out on the bed for nearly an hour, somewhere between napping and daydreaming, until finally someone knocks on his door to deliver his food. The waitress on the other side is silent, thank god, only confirming who Bright is before she drops off the food and goes. For that, he gives her a nice tip, happy to be left to his own devices.

It’s probably very wasteful and decadent of him to order so much food, especially when he knows he doesn’t have the stomach to eat it all in his current body, but Bright tries not to kick himself when he’s already down; he can stand to be a little selfish tonight. He takes to lying on the bed like a submissive porn star, gorging himself as he watches an unfamiliar action movie on TV. The foundation has TVs of course, but everything is very carefully curated and monitored, with no room for possibly triggering content or news from the outside. As a result, watching even a _bad_ movie is a pretty major treat, a treat which Bright savors like expensive candy. But of course, as the hours tick on and midnight draws ever nearer, the doctor knows his time is coming to an end.

He chugs what’s left of the strawberry peach drink he has and stumbles to the mini-fridge, pulling out two bottles of vodka and a bottle of whiskey for good measure. Bright then plops back onto his bed, pulling out his burner phone to type out his final message to his friends, family, and coworkers. The more he types, the more his stomach churns, the fresh food in his belly wanting out, but by some miracle, he manages to keep it all down, though it isn’t made any easier by his situation. Halfway through writing the text, Bright takes a break, wanting to be in the tub before he continues. He shuffles into the bathroom, suddenly feeling very, very aware of himself and how he is about to actually, legitimately die. But it’s still too late, so he supposes that there’s no turning back now.

“It’s… it’s gonna be okay,” Bright tells himself, beginning to choke up as he eyes the white porcelain tub in front of him. His final resting place. “It’ll hurt, yeah… but it’ll work. It _has_ to work. You’ll get to rest soon, Jack.”

**[WARNING: The following text describes a suicidal character swallowing a full bottle of pills, drinking excessively, and cutting himself. This is your final warning.]**

Filling up the tub with warm, soothing water is the easy part. It’s what comes next that’s unbearably hard for him. Bright goes to his discarded work clothes on the floor, pulling back on his lab coat and lens-less glasses. If he’s going to die, he wants to die as Dr. Bright, not just dumb little Jack who couldn’t save anyone, or the nameless D-Class he’s using to get the job done. Slowly, Bright kneels in front of the sink’s cupboard, opening the doors and retrieving his parcel from earlier. With all of the methodical tenderness of an open heart surgeon, he unravels it, spreading it open on the floor like a picnic. On the bright red fabric is a large butcher’s knife, a pocket knife in case the first one is too overwhelming for him to use, a full bottle of painkillers, and a stuffed blue rabbit.

Bright can’t help but smile at and hug the bunny, it being his childhood wubby and all. Sweet little Cotton, just as soft as ever. Reluctantly, he sets the toy aside, moving for the knives next so he can inspect them. The butcher’s knife is brand new, having been stolen from the shipment of kitchen supplies the site got a few weeks ago, and it certainly looks worth the trouble he went to in order to steal it, being sharper than any blade Bright’s seen outside of a test chamber. The other is more personal for him, a pocket knife that Mikell left behind when he started doing field work and stopped coming to visit him. It’s not like it’s a family heirloom or was gifted to the doctor, but Bright still wants it with him in his final hours. If he doesn’t use it, at least he’ll have a piece of Mikell with him when the world goes dark.

He takes a deep, steadying breath. It’s okay. It’s almost over.

After retrieving the bottles of alcohol from the main room, Bright returns to the bathroom and locks the door behind him. For good measure he also pulls out all of the drawers by the door just enough to keep it from opening, even if someone has a key. When they come for his body, it might be difficult to retrieve, but Bright’s still half scared that the foundation might find him before he can pass away, and he can’t have that. If he does this, it’ll be one more obstacle. Not a big one, mind you, but it’s better than just a shoddy hotel lock. Not exactly feeling better at this point, but still determined to go through with his suicide, Bright walks to the bathtub, and very slowly, he steps inside, feeling all kinds of weird as the water immediately begins sinking into his clothes, weighing him down like the anchor he is.

He lies there for a solid minute, taking it all in. It’s almost time. He grabs the whiskey and uses it to down all of the painkillers in the bottle, managing to drain it by the end, leaving the doctor dizzy and disoriented.

Bright fumbles for his burner phone, glad he left it on the floor before he got in, and with the warm water feeling like a cocoon of impending agony and his senses slowly beginning to fail on him, he finishes writing his last goodbye.

_If you are reading this message, then that means it’s finally coming to an end. For many years now, I, Dr. Jack Bright, have been trapped within the amulet that is SCP-963, and for most of those years I have sought some kind of escape, but with no other options left, I have no choice but to take more drastic measures in order to free myself. I’m no fool- I know most if not all of you will believe me to be selfish for turning down the oh so coveted gift of immortality- but I am simply not made for this burden, because that’s what it really is; a burden. I know some of my peers will understand, and for that I am very grateful, but I’m not sending this message for some kind of halfassed attempt at garnering sympathy from people I know to be cold; I’m sending this message to say goodbye._

_I’m not proud of the life I’ve lived, even if it was successful in the foundation’s eyes (save of course for it’s end). I managed to save my younger brother TJ Bright from the reality of his situation by deteriorating his mind, though it has left me with far more guilt than pride. What I did to TJ is unforgivable, and I doubt any power above will look kindly on me for it, but I did what I thought was best for my brother, and for that, I think it will make passing on just a bit easier. Yes, this is a suicide note; I can’t dance around saying it any longer. I’m going to kill myself. For this reason and many others, I ask that no one close to me be sent in to retrieve my body. Knowing the foundation, I’m sure the council will send the people I love most just to spite me, but seeing as I’m about to die, I hope they’ll respect this one, final wish._

_I have left a full will in my quarters on Site 19, including a number of documents with all the information I have on all my past and present projects at the foundation. I hope these will help the researchers who take my place catch up with my work, but I won’t hold my breath. The will itself is very personal, and I ask that O5-12 be given it exactly twenty-four hours following the retrieval of my corpse. I also ask that Agent Cowboy, SCP-590, SCP-321, my mother, and Claire Bright be given the rights to handle my will as they see fit. I understand that many of these people will be difficult to locate/convince to communicate with one another, but I hope my death will be enough to unite them, if only for a moment._

_I honestly don’t know what else to say, so I guess I’ll get a few more personal goodbyes out of the way. Dr. Clef, I left the key to my wine cellar in SCP-682’s stomach by slipping it in his breakfast; good luck getting it, you jackass. Hopefully this act will put an end to our constant bickering, but knowing my luck, you will find a way to flip me the bird from the afterlife. Dr. Rights, I’m sorry I never followed up on our one-night-stand. For what it’s worth, you were one of the only people I ever thought could pull me together, so I guess that’s why I ran from you. Dr. Glass, do try not to work yourself to an early grave, as I know you’re prone to do. Smile once in awhile, it’s good for you! Dr. Kondraki, I’m the one who spiked your coffee with expired goat’s milk. I only let Clef take the fall because I wanted to see you two duel again, but you didn’t, you just just yelled at him, so I guess I oughta apologize. Dr. Gears, you’re the only man in the foundation I respect. I hope that means something to you. Dr. Crow, you are a very good dog but a very rude coworker. I hope you like the dog bed I left you in your quarters._

_Now for my family. Mikell, you are a complete and utter fucking prick, and you piss me off to no end, but I love you, and I wish you had been around more. I know it wasn’t all your fault, it was Dad’s, but I still wish you had reached out to me instead of cutting me off. Claire, you’re the most stubborn person I’ve ever met, but I know that you’re probably the best of all of us, and I hope that’s enough to keep you alive. TJ, you probably don’t remember me at all, but know that you have a big brother that loves and adores you up in the sky, and he’s doing all he can to make your life better. Be brave for me, alright? Sarah, I know we don’t get to be around each other much, but I’m still your big brother and I still love you to pieces. You’re so much smarter than anyone gives you credit for. Dad, you’re ten times worse than Mikell could ever hope to be, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive you for selling our family out to the foundation, yet I still love you all the same. Please go easier on the others when I’m gone. Mama, I have no idea where the hell you are these days, but I hope you’re well. I wish I could’ve seen you before the end._

_Goodbye, everyone. It wasn’t really a great life, but it was mine, and I can only hope the universe will finally give me a little peace. Try not to blow the world up._

_Sincerely, Dr. James Abel Bright, resting at last._

He hits send. Within only a few minutes of the message going through, Bright’s inbox is flooded with a massive wave of replies, most of which are from lower ranking staff that want to know what the hell is going on, a few from his peers and friends, and even one from someone on the O5 council, though he’s disappointed to see that it isn’t his father. The doctor ignores all of them, setting his phone on the floor again before he picks up the butcher knife, admiring it with half lidded eyes. He feels foggy, like none of this is real, the silence deafening. In an act of defiance, Bright fiddles with his phone and puts on the album he listened to earlier, wanting to hear something good as he goes out. It isn’t loud, but it’s still got that dreamy, comforting sort of lull to it, letting him breathe just a little easier.

Bright is, admittedly, inexperienced in cutting himself. He cut a few times as a young teenager, but that was stopped as soon as his mother found out. He’ll never forget the look on her face as she had held him, bawling as she begged god above not to take another baby boy from her, which had confused him at the time, as no one had been found by the foundation yet, and Sarah hadn’t even been _conceived_ at the time! Shaking his head, Bright tries hard not to think about his family as he pulls up his sleeves, revealing the mostly unblemished skin underneath. The D-Class whose body he’s in wasn’t on death row for anything too violent, so there aren’t many scars on his skin, and for whatever reason, that makes this even harder. He really should’ve just brought a gun.

But again, it’s too late now. His eyes wide and refusing to blink, Bright cuts, hard and fast, down the length of his thin arm, biting back a scream at the hot, sharp pain that blossoms from the wound, blood flowing out and mixing with the water around him. The first cut is always the worst, the doctor reminds himself, biting his lower lip as he makes another cut, this one deeper and more slow, more clinical. It hurts- good fucking god, does it _burn-_ but he can’t stop, not now, not ever. His body shaking, Bright cuts himself like a psychotic teen mutilates an animal, not really removing chunks or anything, just freeing enough veins to turn the bathwater a dark pink. It will be red soon enough, but that will take time, more time than Bright has.

Three long, deep cuts on each arm should be enough, Bright thinks. Breath unsteady, his vision hazy with fatigue and pain, the researcher sinks further into the warm bathwater, wishing he had chugged more alcohol before he started. He turns his head ever oh so slightly, eyeing the bottles of vodka he brought in alongside the whiskey, and although they’re not even two feet away, they look far off in the distance, too far to even consider reaching for them. This is happening faster than he thought. Bright feels something inside him seize and panic, suddenly so very much afraid to die, but he doesn’t know what to do about it. The phone feels far away too now, and with the foundation looking for him, probably already preparing his no doubt small containment chamber… it’s no use. He’s going to die here, full of regret and fear and agony.

It’s hard, but in all of his scrambling, Bright finds Cotton. He hugs the bunny to his chest again, letting out a heavy, scared sob. He knows he still sort of wants to die, deep down inside somewhere, but good _god,_ it’s so terrifying and lonely to actually go through. All too suddenly, Bright wants his mom, something he knows is unbelievably childish and dumb, it makes him sound like a fucking toddler, but regardless he wants to be cuddled by his mother in his final moments on earth. The world is turning black at the edges now, the pain becoming a low, constant pulse in his ears, or maybe that’s just his heartbeat. It might just be, seeing as it’s starting to slow down. Bright squeezes his eyes shut, sobbing even harder as he squeezes Cotton too tight, getting blood in the plushie’s fur. He wants to sleep.

Ten more minutes pass, his vision still fuzzy, and yet… Bright doesn’t die.

Instead he stays somewhere close to the edge, but even as more blood mixes with the water and it turns a pungent, thick red, he doesn’t die.

_This isn’t right._

Bright breathes deeply in and out, trying to gain some kind of momentum, and although it’s shallow, it doesn’t slow any further. He tries to sit up, tries to grab the knife and keep cutting, but he’s too weak to do much right now. For what feels like an eternity, Bright lays in what he once thought would be his coffin and _bleeds,_ so much blood coming out that the water becomes noticeably thicker, but it’s still not enough to kill him. He glances down at his amulet at one point, wondering if this is somehow SCP-963’s doing. The ruby in the middle of the necklace glows faintly in the dark bathroom- he really should’ve left the lights on for this- the sight eerie yet… _comforting,_ in a way. It’s no hug from Mama, but it’s still something warm and real, glowing like a candle that refuses to go out.

But as Bright looks closer at the amulet, feeling the weight of it on his soaked chest, it dawns on him that none of this could possibly be the necklace's doing. After all, SCP-963 rejected it’s first potential host because he committed suicide, and yet even as Bright bleeds just the same as the man before him, the amulet continues to hold him, continues to accept him as the little shine upon it’s gemstone. So if it’s not SCP-963, then why is he still alive? This isn’t possible, not by any standards! Bright feels himself starting to hyperventilate now, panicked and confused as all hell. The pain starts to flare up again, more blood slipping out as the researcher squirms in place, more scared than he’s been in a long, long time. Why isn’t he _dead_ yet? When will the pain finally _end?_ Please, _please_ let it end already!

There’s a loud bang from outside. Bright goes stock-still with fear, his whole body shivering, and no, that’s not just because the water is getting cold. Outside he can hear shouting, followed by a few gunshots, and suddenly he can hear the unmistakable sound of a squad of heavily armored soldiers storming into his hotel room, stopping just short of the bathroom door. There’s more yelling, followed by the ringing of keys, and Bright feels tears streaming down his face anew, terrified to be found so quickly. He squeezes his eyes shut so hard they hurt, quietly begging out loud for his end, for whatever gods are out there to strike him down and drown him, to let him die with some amount of peacefulness.

The door unlocks, but just as Bright hoped before he got in the tub, it can’t fully open with the drawers in the way.

“Dr. Bright? Dr. Bright, are you in there?” Someone shouts from outside, their voice unfamiliar to the researcher.

Bright bites his lip, wanting to stay silent despite the pain he’s in.

“Dr. Bright, please respond.” The person all but orders, coming close to frantic as they continually bang on the door, but the drawers are well-built and refuse to give out under the onslaught of abuse.

Bright doesn’t answer. He honestly doesn’t know if he can, his throat too sore from all his crying to do much. But he knows he gives himself away as the noise from outside overwhelms him, making him sob in earnest all over again, clutching his dear rabbit all the tighter. The guards give up on trying to talk to him, murmuring amongst themselves as they try to figure out how to get the doctor out alive, but Bright can’t bring himself to care. It’s over, isn’t it? He can’t escape, not with the foundation right outside, unless… he glances to a window in the bathroom. It’s small, but so is he. If he tries hard enough, he can squeeze out through there, and maybe then he can just jump to his death. It isn’t how he wanted to go out, with people able to see him at his lowest, but it’s better than an endless life of imprisonment within the foundation.

As he stands, Bright feels everything spin and shake, his vision going black as he struggles to reorient himself. He grabs for something, but in the end finds nothing, his body collapsing out of the tub and onto the cold, ceramic floor. The world goes dark for a long, long time. Bright wants to believe that he did it, that he’s finally dead from a blow to the head or something of that nature, but his wet clothes are still cold and heavy against his skin, keeping him aware of himself and his inability to die. Slowly, his entire body aching with such excruciating pain that he can barely stand it, Bright crawls across the floor and to the window. He hesitates, afraid to get up again, but he knows it’s his only chance at escape. He stands on shaky legs, his knees hurting so badly, but by some miracle, he manages to stay upright.

“Dr. Bright!” Whoever is outside must be able to see through the thin crack of the partially open door, as they take to shouting at the researcher when he grabs onto the windowsill. “Stop where you are! Come to the door and remove the obstacles; this won’t become anymore difficult for you if you just cooperate, do you understand that?”

Despite the odds being stacked against him, Bright elects to ignore the intruder, not even glancing back to look at them. One arm still wrapped around Cotton, the doctor manages to unlock the window and pull it open, now only a thick, tightly knit wall of wire keeping him away from blissful release. With strength he thought lost to him by now, Bright pushes on the wiring until it breaks, ripping open like a canvas bag after too much wear and tear. Now comes the hard part, as if all of this wasn’t difficult enough. Taking a deep breath, Bright starts trying to pull himself up onto the windowsill, only realizing as he pushes down on what were once open wounds that his cuts don’t hurt nearly as much as they did before.

He pauses, genuinely confused. Ignoring the continued angry screams from behind him, Bright pulls his sleeves down and admires his arms, eyes widening in bewilderment at the sight before him. The cuts are still there, yes, but they’ve more or less completely healed over, only thick, angry red marks left behind, as if the cuts were made days ago and not a mere hour prior. This is only getting stranger by the minute. Too scared and on edge to study himself further, Bright continues trying to scramble out the window, very nearly there when, out of nowhere, a familiar face pops up like a gopher in front of him, causing him to lose his balance and fall on his ass, his vision swimming again.

When Bright manages to crack an eye open, he discovers Mikell Bright- Agent Cowboy to the foundation soldiers still trying to kick down the door- towering above him, a deeply disappointed look on his sun-kissed face.

“You’ve really gone and done it now, Jack.” Mikell whispers, his words simple but sharp, cutting deeper than any blade Bright could possibly get his hands on.

“Mikell? What- you-” Bright tries to ask questions, tries to gather himself, but that last fall really wore him out, and good god, now the world is _really_ spinning, the only constant being Mikell’s face, which slowly forms a grimace.

“Oh, Jackie… what’ve you _done_ to yourself?” Mikell asks, as if he hasn’t been watching Bright spin out of control for years now. But it’s a fair question, in the moment. If only Bright could gather the strength to answer him.

Instead, Bright tries to stand up again, tries to scramble to his feet and do something, but the floor is soaked with blood and water, making him fall again. Mikell kneels down at some point during all of his brother’s flailing, though the doctor isn’t sure when. He still wants to pass on, or at least fucking _sleep,_ but something in him won’t give up, won’t let him close his eyes for longer than a few seconds at a time. Somewhere between blinks, the door gets opened and the lights turn on, though to Bright’s relief, he isn’t swarmed like he feared he would be. He isn’t sure how many people come inside- two, if he had to guess- but medics are on him soon enough, rolling him over and trying to look him over, but Bright _howls,_ refusing to let go of Cotton or, more importantly, let these people anywhere near him when he knows what they’ll do to him after he’s out of here.

“Back off a minute, I’ve got him,” Mikell orders, and then Bright feels familiar hands cup his face, warm and anchoring him to the present. “Jack, I need ya to calm down, alright? No one’s here to hurt you, buddy.”

Bright shakes his head, trying to talk, to _scream,_ but it just won’t come out.

Mikell sighs like a father, which is strangely fitting, in a way. He always did look the most like Dad, even if Bright would never say that to his face. _“Please,_ Jackie… at least let _me_ help you, okay? Come on, show me your arms.”

Bright stammers something nonsensical and lost even to him as he manages to unwind at least one arm for his older brother, wincing as Mikell takes it and rolls up his coat sleeves. The expression that overtakes his face is very telling, the agent’s eyes widening in complete and utter shock.  
  
“But you… you cut yourself, right?” Mikell looks to Bright for answers, his reaction even bigger than his brother’s. The doctor can only give a mute nod, his eyes welling up with tears. “Then how are you… how are you _alive?_ Is it the amulet, or-” He suddenly pauses, his own phone buzzing in his pocket. He takes it out and answers it, forgetting it’s on speaker.

“Did you find James yet?” Adam Bright asks from the other end, clearly and obviously worried, and yet… he isn’t panicking like he did with Sarah. Either this goes deeper than Bright thought, or he really _is_ Dad’s least favorite.

At that thought, he does something he finds very childish and hugs Cotton tighter, not sure why that thought hits him so hard, but it’s enough to unopen him.

“Yeah, I’ve got him, old man,” Mikell chooses to ignore his little brother for the most part, one hand still holding the phone, the other running it’s fingers through Bright’s hair. The agent fumbles with his phone a bit, turning it off speaker as he presses it to his ear, likely for more privacy and, perhaps, to spare Bright of an untimely scolding. “He’s alive, somehow… I don’t know how he is, really. By all accounts, he should’ve bled out well over half an hour ago, but here he is, his wounds all healed up. What’s going on here? Why aren’t you freaking out about this?”

Bright doesn’t hear his father’s response, but he can’t say he wants to. His tears eventually slow into small, hiccuping gasps, only to be interrupted by a gulp of air as Mikell rolls up one of the legs of his pajama pants, and without blinking, stabs his brother in the thigh with a sterile syringe. Bright blinks a few times, the drugs taking a moment to kick in, but when they do, he feels the walls around his conscience begin to give way, and even as Mikell continues to pet his hair, he drifts away into a dreamless, much needed sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This is really fucking intense, huh? I wrote most of this yesterday, so I apologize for any misspellings or grammar errors, but I really wanted to post this. I should also note that I want to give this fic a sequel later, so you can look forward to that I guess; I promise there won’t be another suicide attempt, but it’ll still probably be a bit heavy. Until then, I hope whoever made it to the end of this dumpster fire enjoyed! Feel free to leave a comment or kudos; I’d really appreciate it!
> 
> (Also, the title of this fic comes from the song “Dreamland” by Glass Animals, and it’s their album of the same name that Jack listens to during the bathtub scene)


End file.
